


Men of Science

by orphan_account



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: (and smut), Demisexual Character, Demisexual Victor, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Grey-Asexual Character, Jekyllstein, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Science Boyfriends, Slow Build, Slow Burn, possible canon divergence but idk yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7797868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor and Henry's relationship before, during, and after the events of Penny Dreadful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly have no clue what I'm doing, I just found it tragic that there are so few Jekyllstein fics anywhere even though they're the real OTP.

Dr. Henry Jekyll studied the piece of paper clutched between his fingers. On it was written two things: at the bottom of the page, the address of an apartment on the other side of the city. Above that, written in a familiar, elegant hand, were only the words _I am in need of your assistance._

Henry had received the note the previous evening, much to his surprise. Upon a first reading, he had not known what to make of its message, and had set it aside as an issue to be dealt with the following day and gone to sleep. It was now nearly sundown again, and the letter which arrived crisp was now softened and wrinkled from the dozens of times Henry had handled it to read throughout the day. Upon waking he had fancied it had all been a dream, so unlikely was its occurrence, but that idea was disproved as he rolled over in bed and glanced the mysterious piece of paper on his nightstand where he had left it. Not having time to consider its contents further before work, he had shoved it into the pocket of his coat and headed off to the hospital.

Henry was of the nature to regularly let his mind wander during his work, usually to his personally theories or pet projects, but today he felt particularly preoccupied. Throughout the day, as he was administering medication, being attacked by deranged patients, and sitting alone in his lab, his mind continually returned to the words of his old friend: _I am in need of your assistance._

It had been five years since he had last seen Dr. Victor Frankenstein, and he had had no contact with the man in that time. And yet, now, after all that time apart, the man sends him a letter requesting his help. No, not requesting, Victor had always suffered from an absence of politeness of arrogance. No doubt, he thought, that his old friend felt a certainty that Henry would respond when beckoned. And what right did Victor have to call upon him? There were more than a few justifiable reasons Henry might have to stay away, to ignore Victor’s summons altogether. And yet, while he had waited twenty-four hours to give himself the illusion of indecision, Henry had known from the moment he read the note that he would not be able to ignore it. Something in those words, I am in need of your assistance, brought worry to the young chemist. His old friend had a nature for being direct and honest in his words, but was rarely concise. He had the soul of a poet, after all, and often embellished his statements with Shakespeare. In the letter Henry received, what was left unsaid spoke louder than the singular sentence. It spoke of secrets, and perhaps danger.

Which was why Henry Jekyll now found himself walking down the street of one of London’s less-fortunate neighborhoods to the address Victor provided. “Hey you!” Henry looked up as a voice shouted from a window, “We don’t want no wogs here, go back to fuckin' Calcutta!” The speaker of the words, a fat woman with a ruddy complexion and no teeth to be seen, proceeded to empty the chamber pot she was holding in his direction, missing him by mere inches as he dodged out of the way. Henry looked up at the woman and scowled. He felt angry at the injustice of it all, that a working class whore living on the South Bank felt entitled to treat him such way, he, would would one day inherit his father’s estate and title, simply for the tan of his skin. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath and continued on. He was here for a reason, and it would do no good to approach an already precarious situation in a foul mood. Besides, he had been working to control his temper lately as to not let it get the best of him.

After finding the correct building, a tenement block which had clearly seen better days, he proceeded to climb the flights of stairs, stepping over filthy women and their crying children, until he reached the door number listed on the piece of paper. He approached with hesitation, and then quickly summoned the courage to rap his fist against the door. “Victor?” he inquired. With no immediate response, he knocked again, louder this time. After a few seconds, the door opened to a crack. In the shadow stood the man he had not seen for the past four years. The Victor of Henry’s memory had always been clean, almost to prudishness. Now he saw a man with bloodshot eyes, wrinkled and stained shirt, and a week’s worth of stubble covering his jaw. Nevertheless, he was surprised by how much he looked the same. His hair was still styled in a shabby cut that seemed more appropriate for a boy than a man. His clothes, while clearly once fine and fashionable, were now threadbare and faded, giving him the contradictory appearance of both a dandy and a beggar. Their eyes met, his usually striking blue gaze seeming watery, clouded.

“Doctor Frankenstein.”

“Doctor Jekyll.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am horrible with science, especially chemistry, so bear with me trying to make references.

The air in the crowded lecture hall was stuffy with pipe smoke. The professor stood at the head of the room smoking and waiting as dozens of young men filed through the door and into the rows of wooden seats that lined the walls. Victor had arrived at the room a quarter of an hour earlier, one of the first students to take their places. He scanned the crowd of his pupils as they took their seats, and was disappointed by what he saw. The men surrounding him were of the same nature of men he had always known and felt himself apart from. They walked in groups, their loud voices spilling bawdy jokes and tales of conquest. Most wore the standard attire of fashionable gentlemen of the age, although there were traces of excess everywhere he looked: their leather shoes and bags polished to look as though they had yet to be worn, the gold and silver timepieces that they checked all too often and conspicuously, and pretentious goatees styled to give them the appearance of esteemed gentleman, rather than the boisterous boys they truly were. They reminded Victor of his brothers, he thought with bored disdain. 

The professor began the lecture in the dry, uninspired style that Victor had come to expect from his teachers. Still, he was eager to get off on the right foot on his first day, and diligently copied down notes and diagrams into the first of many notebooks he would fill during his time at Cambridge. The subject of today's lecture was chemistry, and although it was not his personal area of expertise, he had an interest in the theory of the thing. He listened to the professor speak for two hours before his attention began to fade. Whereas he had previously been taking notes on compounds, he found himself drawing models of anatomy, and writing down lists of questions that he someday hoped to answer. He continued like this, lost in his own ideas, until an interruption in the steady lull of the professor's speaking brought him back to attention.

"Yes, young man? Did you have something to say?"

Someone had raised their hand to ask a question. This was not typical or advisable during a lecture.

"Yes, sir, I did. I simply wanted to say that I believe you are mistaken in your attribution of the glowing properties of cathode ray tubes to phosphorescent materials." So not a question, a daring correction. 

Victor turned around in his seat to get a glimpse at the speaker. He saw at once the source of the disruption, sticking out so sorely in the crowd that he was surprised he had not noticed him before. The young man was of an age with Victor, but that was where the physical similarities ended. He wore a long, fashionable black coat over top his matching black velvet double-breasted waistcoat. His skin was distinctly tan, not as dark as those who lived on the African continent or islands of the Caribbean, but certainly derived from something more exotic than laboring in the sun. Still, his otherness showed the most in his hair: shoulder length, shining, and black as a raven's feathers. He could not have stood in opposition to his ruddy, copper-haired classmates any more if he had tried.

And here he was, this marked outsider, with the audacity to interrupt the sacrosanct flow of the professor's lecture to tell him that he knew better. 

"I'm sorry, what did you say, Mr...?" The professor was clearly not pleased with being interrupted. 

"Jekyll. Henry Jekyll. And I said that I believe you are mistaken with your explanation of the glowing properties of cathode ray tubes. You stated that the glow comes from some sort of phosphorescent material, but this has yet to be proved in any formal experimentation, and I personally believe it is an incorrect hypothesis. 

"Well thank you, Mr. Jekyll, for your valuable insight," the professor said, with unmistakable sarcasm, "but if you are quite finished with your unsolicited annotations to my lecture, I would very much like to continue."

"But you see, sir, what phosphorescent material could exist inside cathode ray tubes without our knowledge, and without us putting it there? It seems an easy answer, but also an unlikely one," the man called Mr. Jekyll continued, fighting to get a word in. 

"I said  _enough_ , Mr. Jekyll," said the professor, angry now. "I don't have enough hours in the day to waste time listening to a man of your kind act as though he knows more than I. Now if you will excuse me, we will continue this lesson _uninterrupted._

"But you're wrong!" the young man exclaimed, heat rising in his face. "And I would inquire what you speak of when you speak of men of 'my kind', if you will,  _sir."_

The professor set back down the book from which he was about to resume reading. "I mean the kind of man such as you, who wears the dress of an Englishman but lacks the manners and refinery. The kind of man who overestimates their status simply because their mother was lucky enough to bed a man high above her station. I will not tolerate impertinence in my lecture hall, young man, and therefore you are dismissed until you can demonstrate the civility of your fellow classmates. Good day, Mr. Jekyll."

But the professor's dismissal was not necessary, as the young man was already halfway out of the door by the time he was finished speaking, knocking over others' books and scattering a storm of papers in his wake. 

Victor sat still, stunned by the display he had just witnessed. He had many a time disagreed with a teacher, and often thought himself of better knowledge than them. Still, he had never had the whim to voice these thoughts aloud, especially in front of an entire lecture hall of peers. In his opinion, Mr. Jekyll had just acted tremendously foolish, especially in causing such a disruption on the first day of lessons. Nevertheless, he too felt indignant regarding the nature of this professor's comments. They were certainly unprofessional coming from a superior, and reprehensible in their employment of racial insult, no matter how disrespectful Mr. Jekyll had been. In fact, there was something admirable to what the young man had just done. While foolhardy, it also showed a boldness of spirit, something which Victor often found himself lacking.

Before he knew it, he was out of his chair and shoving his books into his leather bag.

"And where is it that you think you're going, Mr. Frankenstein?" the professor asked.

Victor had just reached the door when he paused and turned around. At a loss for an answer—for himself as well, in all honesty—he threw out his hands in earnest uncertainty. 

"To seek a Great Perhaps."

And with that, he was gone. 

He glimpsed the tail of the man's black coat as it disappeared around the corner a few yards in front of him.  
"Mr. Jekyll!" He cried out after the man, "Mr. Jekyll!"  
The young man turned around, dark hair whipping onto his cheeks, which to Victor appeared to be flushed and stained with tears.  
"Were you not just in the same chemistry lecture as I? Why have you left?" he inquired.  
"I felt it necessary to excuse myself, as I began to feel ill." Victor replied.  
"Is that so?"  
"Yes, you see, I fear my constitution has cursed me with an intolerance to the racialist excrement of colonialist old fops."  
With that, Mr. Jekyll broke into a hearty laugh.  
"I am sorry to hear of your malady, my friend. I too have been cursed with such an ailment, but I find a lifetime of exposure to regular dosages has begun to build my tolerance."  
Victor grinned. "Fascinating."

"I'm afraid we haven't been properly introduced. My name is Henry Jekyll, although you are equally welcome to call me 'Lord Hyde's wog son', as most do out of earshot." He offered out his hand for Victor to shake.  
"Victor Frankenstein. I would enlighten you with a name with which my elder brothers refer to me, but alas, my existence seems to be such a redundancy to them that I fall outside the threshold of even scorn."  
Henry laughed again. It was a pleasant sound, thought Victor, like bells in the morning.  
"So, old boy, while I do admire your stance of solidarity with me against—colonialist old fops? Is that how you put it—please tell me you have a better reason in abandoning your first lecture at Cambridge than to defend the honor of a hot-tempered man you barely know."  
Victor, in fact, did have another reason for seeking out Henry.  
"Yes, I was actually hoping to ask you to expand on what you said back in the lecture. I must admit, my mind had drifted prior to your outburst, and I do not profess to be a genius in the subject of chemistry, but I believe you were skeptical about the presence of phosphorescence in cathode ray tubes? I respect your point, being myself a fierce student in the school of skepticism, but I must inquire—if not phosphorescence, there must be something else causing the illumination reaction, must there not be?"  
Henry smirked in response to this. "Oh I'm glad you asked that, my friend."  
He began to walk and talk, all traces of anger gone, his face lit with enthusiasm, and clearly in his element. Victor followed alongside, listening intently to every word.  
"You see, I simply think phosphorescence has no place in this realm of study. I believe there to be something much more... microscopic at play. In fact, I believe it might have something to do with atoms and their decay..."

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Following the day of their first introduction, the pair had become practically inseparable, much to the contempt and ridicule of their peers. While Victor may have been able to go about his studies unnoticed and unbothered by his fellow students—at least for awhile—by connecting himself to Henry Jekyll he had instantly settled his place as an outsider and a freak within the ranks of the Cambridge medical students. Victor hardly seemed to notice this though, as he was too busy exploring a part of life he had never experienced before: true friendship. He and Henry had connected instantly, bonding over their shared otherness, as well as their darker aspects. They did not mind the disdain of their peers; they decided they had already advanced far ahead of the likes of simple-minded men like that. They took their seats together during lessons, which also displeased many a professor, as they had the habit of passing notes back and forth incessantly between each other, the contents of which were often snide jokes or criticisms of the professor, the lesson, or their classmates. 

Before long, the two had decided to become roommates. Up until then, Victor had been living alone in a tiny, filthy tenement, and Henry had been living—much to his own displeasure—in his father's house. Together, they rented a modest, two-roomed space a few blocks away from Cambridge. In all honesty, Henry covered most of the payment himself. Victor was unhappy and embarrassed by this arrangement, but he had to agree that it was the only way to afford the living space they needed. He had explained to Henry the complicated situation he faced with his family: that he came from a place of wealth, but simply had none to call his own. He explained how his mother died when he was very young, and his father not long after. He was the youngest of five sons, and was afforded no love by his elder brothers. He might have been able to secure more of the family fortune for himself if he had tried, but he had little interest in matters of money. While his brothers fought tooth and nail for deeds and titles and inheritances, Victor had been in the lab he had created for himself, dissecting rabbits and cats. In the end, his siblings left him just enough money so that he wouldn't starve. After their father's funeral, he immediately applied to Cambridge, and was impressive, and fortunate, enough to be granted a full scholarship. His brothers had not spoken with him since, and he too made no attempts to initiate contact. 

Henry, in turn, told Victor about his strained, to put it lightly, relationship with his father. He explained to him how his father had abandoned his mother back in India after he was born, but felt an obligation to raise his bastard son. Lord Hyde had remained unmarried since, so even though Henry was illegitimate, he was his primary heir for fortune and title. He despised his father, a cruel and unloving man, but also depended on his fortune to pay for his tuition at Cambridge. He was sure to let Victor know that he was eagerly awaiting the day he would die, when he would spite him by selling off all his vain and excessive possessions, keeping only what he required to build himself a modern lab in which to continue his research and an estate in which to live comfortably. It was the title he most looked forward to, though. Once he carried the name of Lord Hyde, the people who once looked down upon him for the color of his skin or status of birth would be forced to smile politely and graciously as he rode past in his carriage, no matter what they felt in their hearts. 

The night they moved into their new quarters, they celebrated in earnest. After a dinner at a nearby curry shop—the taste of which Henry had introduced Victor—they returned to their rooms to continue the celebration. Victor personally did not partake in drinking spirits, as he thought himself above those baser desires. However, after much urging, Henry was able to convince him to share in smoking cannabis from a curious device called a hookah with him. Henry had told him it was often used as a tool to find enlightenment, and that some of the greatest minds of history had been inspired to grand discoveries under its influence. So far, Victor had just found that it put him in good humor and caused him to feel hungry.

It was late that night when they grew too tired to continue conversation. Their beds stood adjacent in the larger of the two rooms, which they had designated as their bedroom. Henry fell asleep first; Victor could tell by the change in his breathing. As he lay in bed, looking at the dark silhouette of the closest companion he had ever had, he realized he had never been happier in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty so I'm kinda feeling myself getting in the groove with this one. Any comments or feedback much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Henry likes to fight everyone and Victor considers his own sexuality while being sorta creepy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Demisexual/grey-asexual Victor is canon fight me

Henry shut the door and slid the bolt as carefully as possible as to not make any noise. He was hoping to sneak to the bathroom and have at least a few minutes to clean himself up as best he could before his arrival was noticed.

"Decided to skip supper, did you?"

Henry turned around and looked for his roommate in their small parlour. After a few seconds he eventually spotted him sitting on a cushion in the corner of their room, almost completely hidden in a shadow. He was clearly absorbed in whatever book it was he held in his hands, as he had not looked up to greet Henry when he entered. Henry was thankful for this, as he might still have a chance to slip away to a different room before Victor had the chance to see him. 

"Really Henry, starving for the sake of one's work is much more of my modus operandi than yours. If you keep up this habit I may fear you are beginning to usurp my idenit-" Victor stopped mid-sentence as he looked up to address his friend, and caught sight of the current state of the other man for the first time. 

He sighed. "Who was it this time, Henry? What lowly soul was unfortunate enough as to catch the sharp end of that pesky temper of yours?"

"I had reason to suspect Pierce was the culprit responsible for all of my beakers that have turned up broken as of late. I confronted him about it and, as you can see, he was in no mood to seek atonement."

"Pay no mind to the antics of that brainless fool. Vandalism is a poor man's revenge and he looks more the beggar for it."

"Thank you Victor, I do agree. However I am puzzled as to the grievance for which he sought retribution. As dim as Pierce may be, he has never shown animosity towards me before in the open, and does not seem to possess the same hostile nature as many of my typical antagonists. I wonder which of my actions has so suddenly catalyzed him to act against me. Perhaps it has simply taken him longer than the others to realize that my complexion is due to more than the result of a sun tan."

"I may have the answer to your contemplations, my friend. While you are correct that he dislikes you for your color, I hypothesize that his actions may be more in response to a recent conversation I had with the man. You see, I overheard him in the hallway the other day declaring the injustice of the fact that a half-caste is more adept at synthesizing compounds than he. I felt that I, for the noble cause of science, owed him an explanation as to the true reasons for his academic shortcomings. So I presented him with the page from our heredity book which describes the traits found in offspring of a brother and sister who fornicate, and suggested he would make quite a case study."

Victor dropped his faux earnestness and gave way to a satisfied smirk at his own goading. Henry, however, remained looking deadly serious.

"Well Victor, it seems as though our individual actions have come to reflect on us as a pair. If you continue to insult our respected classmates as you do, how am I ever to make friends?"

With this, Henry let the seriousness fall from his face and broke into a grin, which soon turned into a robust fit of laughter shared between the two men. 

"I swear to you, Victor, I was a moment away from having Pierce wincing for weeks...that is, before Crowley showed up to aid him."

Victor's laughter died off quickly. "You mean to say there were two of them? That is hardly a fair fight, Henry. Come closer and let me examine the damage. Is there any chance you have been concussed?"

Victor stood up and walked to him, and Henry let him guide him to sit on the sofa. He sat down beside him and began to move to finger side to side in front of his face, and Henry knew without instruction that he was supposed to follow with his eyes.

"Well, ocular activity appears to be regular, so concussion seems unlikely. I still cannot believe you attempted to hold your own against two men, Henry. You are wiser than that. It is a shame I was not there and able to assist you, as you know I certainly would have."

In fact, Henry  _did_ know that, had Victor witnessed him fighting, he would undoubtedly insist to fight alongside him. Which was why Henry tried his best to never let his arguments come to blows when Victor was around, so that he would not feel compelled to become involved. Henry would not have chosen to describe his friend as weak, but it was clear to see that the man's strengths lay outside of the physical realm. Henry, on the other hand, while also not a large man, had been getting into fights his entire life, and knew how to take a punch as well as throw one. He had no idea how Victor would fare in a physical matchup, and had no desire to find out. In any case, he could take care of himself and saw no reason to put his friend at risk in these heated situations, which usually stemmed from issues of his own pride and quick-temper. 

"That cut on your lip should heal of its own accord," Victor was saying, "but I'm afraid the one above your eye shall require sutures. Stay here while I fetch my medicine bag."

Henry waited while his friend walked into the other room to retrieve the supplies he would need. This was not the first time Victor had stitched him up following a brawl, and he doubted it would be the last. He counted himself lucky to have a friend such as Victor, who never complained or asked anything in return for his services, and who was, in Henry's opinion, already more skilled than many of the attendants of the college's infirmary. 

Victor returned with his medical bag and sat down beside him again. "You know the drill, old sport," he said.

Henry tilted his head so that Victor could have access to the deep and bloody gash directly above his eyebrow. Victor traced his fingers over the skin and moved his face closer to examine the wound, making soft "tut, tut, tut" sounds as he did so. Henry felt Victor's breath ghost across his neck, and had to fight to suppress a shiver. His eyes at this distance, so close to his own, were impossible to ignore. So terribly, terribly blue. Translucent and alert, they could have an almost unsettling effect from time to time. When Victor was experiencing a moment of inspiration or excitement, they were wide and wild, practically pouring over with unbridled enthusiasm. At other times, they could seem cool and sharp as ice, and Henry would sometimes have the uncomfortable feeling that his friend was looking upon him no differently than he would look at a cadaver upon his operation table. 

Henry winced as Victor pressed an alcohol-soaked rag to the wound. He continued to grit his teeth as Victor began to thread the needle through and pull the split skin back together. His friend did not speak or look to check for any reaction from Henry; he was lost in the concentration of his work, and anything beyond that at this moment was no more than an irritating distraction from his perspective. Henry was focused on the moment as well, but in a way that could not be less similar than that of his friend. He did not so much mind the pain of the sutures, as he had experienced it many times before. Instead, he savored the gentle contact of Victor's other hand on his face, his fingers applying a light pressure that he found to be grounding, and most certainly felt more amplified to him than any touch of that nature should be. 

At last—Henry was ashamed to realize he was dismayed at this—Victor tied off the thread and pulled away. 

"That should do the trick, my friend."

"Thank you, Victor. I can always count on you," Henry said earnestly.

"No need to thank me," Victor replied "but, although I know it is a fruitless pursuit, might I request you be more careful next time so that there will be no need for me to spend my evening attending your wounds? Perhaps you could walk away for once?"

"Not a chance in Hell," Henry replied, flashing a rueful grin. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Victor awoke to a creaking sound that, in his groggy state, confused as well as irritated him. He looked around for the source of the strange noise and deduced it was coming from the side of the small bedroom in where Henry's bed was located. He rubbed his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the darkness of the room. Once he could see clearly enough to begin to make out shapes and outlines, he realized that Henry still lay awake in bed, and although covered by a blanket, he was was able to discern the jerking, pumping motion of Henry's arm in what seemed to be the area between his legs.

 _Oh,_ Victor thought, mortified to realize what he was witnessing. It was not as though Victor did not occasionally take part in the same act. There were times, every month or so, when he would feel a persistent urge from his body to bring himself to release. However, whenever Victor had touched himself in that manner in the past, it had been hardly more than perfunctory. He would wait to make to make sure he was completely alone, then let his hand fall to the necessary motion, while his mind drifted to and fro, focusing on nothing in particular.

As he watched Henry, he realized that his friend was having a profoundly different sort of experience. He had to strain to listen past the sound of the wooden bed frame creaking, but he was certain he heard an assortment of additional sounds coming from Henry himself: little gasps and moans and grunts of a nature completely foreign to Victor. He could not be sure in the dark of the bedroom, but he imagined that had he looked upon his friend's face he would see a look of greater expressiveness than the passive visage he knew he himself displayed during the same act. 

He knew, without question, that he should simply turn over and attempt to fall back to sleep. He knew that this was not something he was meant to witness, and that Henry would certainly be upset or angry if he knew Victor was watching him. And yet, for some reason or other, Victor could not bring himself to turn away or to stop listening. He was curious about so much. Was this how such an experience played out for most other men? Was he an outlier in this as well, as he was in so many other aspects of his existence? He wondered what other men thought of while touching themselves. Did they think of nothing, as he did, or did they focus on images of desirable women? Victor had never really taken an interest in women. He supposed that he should be worried or ashamed of this aspect of himself, but if he was being honest with himself, his life felt full enough with his studies and his experiments and the promises each of those might bring to pay much attention to the pursuit of womankind. That is not to say he did not occasionally fall victim to loneliness and wonder what his life would be like shared with another. He was a romantic at heart, after all. He could imagine entering his home at the end of a long day working and being greeted by a true companion, someone to call his own. He could see the two of them talking over dinner, discussing ideas and current events. He wondered how it might feel to have someone lay down beside him at night, to share the warmth of a bed and dreams of the future. It was simply matters of the flesh that did not interest him. Additionally, he had yet to meet a woman who caught his attention in a way that might lead him to desire to engage with her in a manner beyond friendship. She would have to be highly intelligent, of course. Quick and witty and modern, and certainly not religious. Whenever he had attempted to picture what this mystery woman might look like, he found the same features springing up in his mind: long black hair, fierce brown eyes, and full lips.

He wondered what Henry imagined as he took himself in hand. Did he picture beautiful women? For some reason, Victor believed this to be unlikely. If there was any young man in London with less of an interest in women than himself, it was Henry Jekyll. Strangely enough, Victor could remember a time or two in which he thought his friend looked at him in a manner that was not befitting for for brotherly companions, although perhaps it had only been his imagination. Victor suddenly wondered if Henry ever thought of him while touching himself.  _Would that bother me?_ Victor asked himself. Strangely, the thought of it did not seem to. He did not believe it was something he expressly desired either, but he came to the conclusion that if his friend did indeed let his thoughts fall upon him while in the act, it was of little concern to him. 

Victor was shaken from his train of thought as he heard the noises coming from Henry across the small room begin to grow louder, and seemingly more desperate in nature. What had clearly been moans of pleasure earlier had now turned into grunts of exertion and anticipation. With one final exclamation, he knew his friend had found his release, and after a few moments he heard one final creak of the bed as Henry seemingly turned to go to sleep.

Victor closed his eyes again, attempting to recapture sleep for himself, but found that his face was flushed and his heart was racing. He had the strangest suspicion that it had to do with something more than mere embarrassment alone. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit that this chapter was sort of rushed. I wrote half of it and then got inspired and started writing the next chapter, which I think is multitudes better. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and leave some feedback if you feel so inclined.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Victor is a man far ahead of his time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a fairly passionate rant about abortion, in case that type of thing makes you uncomfortable.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Henry heard Victor come in. He looked up from his dinner and greeted his friend with a hopeful smile. 

“How did it go, old boy? Were they impressed with your findings?”

Victor set down his bag and papers and took a seat across from Henry at their small dining table.

“Well, that is rather hard to say, as they barely made it past the abstract before they began to question my methods,” he said bitterly. 

Henry sighed. “I am sorry, my friend. What in particular was it to which they took objection?”

Victory laughed humorlessly, “What do you think it was, Henry? I would have avoided the truth if I saw any way to do so, but I could not think of any other explanation I could give them that would seem plausible. I always knew they they would not be pleased with my utilization of the abortionist, but honestly, Henry, from their reactions it nearly seemed as though I was in a room full of Catholic priests rather than men of science! Oh, how they gasped and looked upon me as though I was no better than a graverobber standing before them!”

Henry had advised Victor against this path of research and the consequences it might bring him countless times before, but his friend had simply waved a dismissive hand to his warnings, saying that the pursuit of knowledge outweighed any logistical concerns. Now, seeing his closest friend’s distress following scorn and rejection, he felt no satisfaction for having been correct.

“And what did they make of your assistance in these procedures as payment for your specimens? Or did you not share that fact with the faculty?” He asked.

“Are you mad?” Victor choked, “Do you think I wish to be thrown into prison? Even if all I did was help to anesthetize the patients, I could still be labeled an accomplice! It is ridiculous that in this day and age we continue to let our moralistic qualms hinder the progress of science! What difference should it make where I procure my specimens? Especially when there is not an abundance of weeping women lining up outside the gates of Cambridge to donate the bodies of their stillborns! No, they insist on dressing their corpses in finery and burying them to rot in the earth, under the delusion that this is the only way their souls shall ascend to some heavenly realm to be fed sweets from the hand of God himself! It is such a waste, I tell you. They live not long enough in this world to utter a single cry or soil themselves, but when I offer to give meaning to their brief existence suddenly  _ I  _ am the monster? And so I turn to the only source of specimens available for my work, to the abortionists of the back-alleys, to the corpses that would otherwise be incinerated or thrown into a trash heap for the dogs to devour. But my labours here are wasted, and my findings deemed invalid simply because we live in a society that has chosen to criminalize a promising procedure under the influence of toxic religiosity rather than study and regulate it! Here we have a solution that could potentially save the lives of women and alleviate the scourge of poverty, and yet we throw its practitioners in prison because our fragile sensibilities cling to superstition instead of embracing the new age! The future is moving fast, Henry, but not nearly fast enough for me!”

By this point, Victor’s eyes were brimming with a wild enthusiasm. He gesticulated passionately as he spoke, a habit he was prone to, as if attempting to conjure the future into existence with a wave of his hands. If Victor had not been so upset, Henry would have been tempted to smile. This was his friend at his most inspired, the reason he was simultaneously the most genius student among their peers, and also the dread of every professor. He was a young man ahead of his time, doomed to be ostracized for it. Henry loved him for this. For his passion for modernity, his single-mindedness in the pursuit of progress. This was a man born to break boundaries, to make history. Henry only hoped he would not be left behind in the velocity of his friend’s genius.

“Well look on the bright side, old boy. If they decide to expel you from Cambridge for this, you could always turn to politics. You sound like you have the heart for it.” He jested.

At the grim look on Victor’s face he withdrew his smile.

“Oh no, my friend. Tell me that is not the case.”

“Not yet. There is to be an ethics hearing held Friday, after which the university will decide what to do with me.”

“I am so sorry, Victor. Although I do not believe you have much to fear. It is common knowledge that you are the brightest student here, and Cambridge would not dare to lose your genius, no matter what transgressions they believe you have committed.”

Victor smiled weakly. “Thank you Henry, you are a true friend.” He paused audibly, and in his silence Henry could sense there was something he was holding back.

“There is something else too, I’m afraid.”

“Yes?” Henry urged.

“They have requested your presence at the hearing as well,” he stated carefully, his eyes studying his friend for a reaction.

Henry’s demeanor changed from comforting to apprehensive. “And why is that, Victor? Please, tell me what you have done.”

Victor placed his hand atop Henry’s in a gesture that was both comforting and imploring.

“I swear to you, Henry, I believed I was doing you a kindness. I had no mind for the implications or consequences at the time. The chemical stains that you have produced proved remarkably useful to me in studying the circulatory systems of the specimens, and I thought it only fair to attribute you with credit. I was naive enough to believe that my findings would be celebrated, and I wanted you to share in the glory. It was never my intention to drag you into an incident such as this.”

Henry pulled his hand away from Victor’s and stood up from the table.

“Your intentions are of no concern to me, Victor! It is the consequences which matter! Do you understand the situation you have now put me in? I am now to suffer for  _ your  _ carelessness and lack of foresight! And who knows what might happen now? Your transgressions may be easily forgiven in lieu of your genius, but I am not so optimistic for myself! Do you not understand that they do not see me as they see you? If you cross a boundary, you are simply a brilliant young man who was so devoted to his pursuit of knowledge that he lost sight of the rules. But I? If I step out of bounds, I am a savage who demonstrates no regard for English values or legality! Do you know how hard I have had to work, Victor, to be accepted and taken seriously by this institution? And now I must stand before the faculty and defend myself once more! Defend myself as I have had to do my entire life! To plead my case that I am worthy of being a student here, and not more suited to the life of a criminal! I must do this, all because of you being reckless and selfish and a fool!”

He sat down forcefully on a cushion in the corner of the room. He tried to breathe deeply to calm himself, as he was panting hard from the force of his anger. He looked up at Victor, who had turned in his chair to watch him pace furiously around the room. His eyes were wide and he was watching Henry intently and fearfully. He cautiously rose from his chair and slowly walked to the place where Henry sat, lowering himself crouch in front of him. 

He spoke soft and pleading, “Henry, Henry my friend, I am so,  _ so  _ sorry. I never meant to cause you strife. You are right, I am selfish. I am reckless. This is all my fault and you are right to be angry. Please, Henry, forgive me. I know I have acted as a fool, but the thought of losing your friendship terrifies me to no end.”

Now that he was closer, Henry could see the anguish in Victor’s face. His eyes threatening to spill over with tears at any moment. He could not stand to see that happen, could not live with himself if he so hurt this misunderstood boy with a poet’s soul—his only friend in the world. 

He reached out and grasped Victor by his shoulder, bringing him to turn and be seated next to him. He pulled him close so that they sat side-by-side and pressed together at the shoulder, then reached up a hand to tenderly turn Victor’s face towards his own.

“It is I who am a fool, Victor. I let my anger and pride get the best of me just now. I do not mean any of the cruel things I said,” he coaxed as he rubbed his thumb across the soft skin under Victor’s eye, brushing away a tear before it could fall.

“You never need fear losing my friendship, I swear to you. It is I who does not deserve such a devoted friend as you. You, who forgives me of my many faults and stays by my side even in my most foolhardy moments of rage. Who was a kind enough friend to hope to share in your success with me when there was no need to do so. I should have thanked you instead of becoming angry. It is I who must ask your forgiveness, friend.”

Victor spoke no words, but gave his answer by moving to rest his head upon Henry’ shoulder. Before he could think to stop himself, Henry reached over with his other arm and brought his fingers to rest in Victor’s hair, which he began to stroke soothingly. To his relief, Victor did not pull away, but sighed pleasantly and leaned into the touch. 

“But what of the hearing, Henry?” Victor said finally. “I worry on your behalf.”

“Do not concern yourself with that, old boy,” Henry assured. “We have nothing to fear. That is, as long as you let me handle all of the talking.”

At this, Victor let out a weak laugh and relaxed further. They continued to sit there in silence for some time, Henry stroking Victor’s short, soft hair and thinking of the future. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say this is my favorite update I've posted so far. I fall in love with these idiot boys more and more with every chapter. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Unfortunately, I just started school again, so I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I'll try my best!


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